


John's Three Wishes

by Hope_Austen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bedtime Stories, Christmas, Declarations Of Love, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Mary Watson death (mentioned), Parentlock, Post S4, Sherlock's POV, fairytale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-16 16:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope_Austen/pseuds/Hope_Austen
Summary: Sherlock loves to eavesdrop on Rosie’s bedtime ritual, which includes John reading to her. One night after John finishes reading "Disney’s Aladdin," Rosie poses an interesting question to him. “If you had a genie, what would your three wishes be, Daddy?” Sherlock, who is still spying outside the bedroom door, is pretty sure he can deduce what John’s wishes would be, and for the first two, Sherlock is spot on. But that third wish, well … even a genius can get it wrong sometimes.





	1. Chapter 1

John’s muffled voice floated downward and enveloped Sherlock like a warm breeze as the detective tip-toed up the stairway to spy on the doctor and his daughter methodically performing Rosie’s bedtime ritual in their cramped little room that housed two beds, a small table, a few toys (most were kept in the sitting room) and storage for clothes. Every evening like clockwork—One glass of water. One stuffed animal. One story. One question (usually pertaining to the story). One answer. Then some tickling, followed by hugs, kisses and “good nights” before it was lights out.

Sherlock marveled at how similar a soldier and a five-year-old could be when it came to steadiness and structure, especially with their nighttime rituals. After all, Sherlock mused, John’s routine had really never deviated in the time the two of them had intermittently shared a flat. And now that John was back, and Rosie was here, too, Sherlock had found great comfort in the steadiness of these bedtime routines. The world was chaotic enough, and father and daughter brought some semblance of peace and constancy to Sherlock’s life, even through something as simple as brushing your teeth for precisely 60 seconds … _John_ …. and taking exactly three small sips of water from the glass on the bedside table … _Rosie_.

Now, as he stood near the slightly-open door in the upstairs hallway, he listened to John’s steady vocal rhythm reading the night’s literary choice of _Disney’s Aladdin_. Sherlock had been at this hiding game for about a month and much to his satisfaction neither John nor Rosie had twigged to his presence. And within that month, Sherlock had secretly enjoyed listening to the adventures of a girl named Alice, the antics of some anthropomorphic pig named Peppa, and several Christmas-related stories, which John apparently deemed appropriate since they were fast-approaching the holiday.

Suddenly, the detective-turned-spy was pulled from his thoughts by the diminished cadence as John ended the story. 

“So, my Rosebud, do you have a question for me tonight?” John playfully asked his daughter.

Sherlock smirked as he listened to John fall naturally into using the pet name.

“Um … let me see,” Rosie answered.

Sherlock smiled as he visualized Rosie’s pouty lips and furrowed brow, a mirror image of her father, who had donned the same expression on more than one occasion when Sherlock was 10 steps ahead of him and everyone else at a crime scene.

“Well?” John gently prompted.

“So, I liked when Genie gave Aladdin three wishes,” the five-year-old began to ramble. “I wish I was Aladdin, and I could ride an elephant and have a monkey as my best friend and Genie could give me three wishes. Because if I had three wishes I would wish for a mountain of candy, and um … wings,” she continued.

“Wings?!” John barked with a laugh.

Sherlock’s fist went quickly to his mouth to stifle the laughter that was nearly erupting from his throat.

“Well, how else am I going to fly to the North Pole to see Santa? Obviously,” Rosie answered with a hint of impatience.

“Hmm, wonder where you picked up that word?” John murmured humorously. “Of course. Wings. How silly of me. Go on.”

“And … oh yeah, a dog,” Rosie stated proudly.

Sherlock’s shoulders promptly stopped shaking; his facial expression caught between surprise and intrigue. _That’s not a bad wish. Not bad at all._

“Well, that sounds lovely,” John said. “I guess it’s time for hugs—”

“No, Daddy!” Rosie interrupted. “I have to ask my question.”

“Okay,” John placated. “What’s your question?”

Sherlock could hear a slight pause. Rosie seemed to do this when thinking of a good question. Or, stalling for time. Sherlock was never sure which. Finally, the silence was broken and Sherlock leaned against the wall and craned his neck a little to listen.

“If you had a genie, what would your three wishes be, Daddy?” Rosie asked with the innocence of a child, not knowing the implications of such a question.

The silence permeating the flat at that moment was deafening. Sherlock couldn’t even hear the hum of the traffic outside. It was as if every piece of dust was hanging in mid-air waiting for John to answer before continuing its downward descent. And in the midst of the void, Sherlock’s mind began to deduce.

_Interesting … What will John say? Will he appease his daughter with a few trite expressions? World peace. Good health. Boring. Or, … will he go deeper? What truths will he reveal?_

Sherlock theorized on what John’s first wish would be. 

_Of course it would have to do with Rosie. Maybe that she’d never be bullied in her whole life. … No, that would be my own wish for her. … That she would become a doctor? No, John wouldn’t push that on her. He would just want her to be happy. … To have a wonderful life. That’s it! A wonderful life for Rosie._

“Well, let’s see,” John began. “I would first wish for you to have a happy life, my precious girl.”

The sound of a gentle kiss flowed from the room and Sherlock imagined John’s lips on Rosie’s forehead. The detective was feeling quite pleased as his thoughts turned to the second wish. 

_Second wish. Let’s see. … What would Dr. Watson wish for? Probably something to do with the good of others … helping others. … No, maybe something that is beyond his control … some way he’d like to help someone but he doesn’t know how. Ah ha! Sobriety for Harry._

“Then for my second wish,” John continued. “I think Aunt Harry could use some help.”

“What kind of help?” Rosie inquired. “Can you help her?”

There was a beat of silence then John replied, “No, I can’t, darling. I’ve tried. But I can always wish that somehow she’ll get the help she needs.”

“Oh, okay,” the child answered with satisfaction.

Sherlock was on a roll as he zeroed in on wish number three. 

_Now let’s see, what will John’s final wish be. Something selfless again or selfish this time? What would you wish for John Watson? What is your heart’s deepest desire? … Oh. … Oh._

The revelation came to the detective like a steady stream of freezing water. The first touch was a shock, but the continuous flow of thoughts barraging his senses finally numbed him. And he found that what had started out as a game, wasn’t enjoyable anymore. Because Sherlock beyond a shadow of a doubt believed John’s third wish would be _… to have his wife alive._

And while on some level Sherlock knew that that wish would make him happy as well, it would also mean that John and Rosie would be taken from him, forever. And that thought sent fear through him like he had never known. A fear that produced such heightened pain, that Sherlock could feel his breaths coming out now in short bursts, his heartbeat increasing and moisture forming in the corners of his eyes. The thought of going back to being alone, of not sharing his life with John and Rosie, was unfathomable. The three of them had endured so much after Mary’s death. John and he had been thrown into hell, clawed their way out through hard work and forgiveness, and finally built a life. A life full of hope and deep friendship … and dare he think, someday … something more? To have that snatched from him now, after so much progress, made Sherlock physically shudder thinking of the dark place to which he’d ultimately be driven if such a wish were to ever come true.

Sherlock knew that such a thing was impossible. Mary was gone. She was never coming back. But even so, just the fact that John would wish it, say it out loud, would destroy any hope that Sherlock had that perhaps someday John might love him as he loved John—as more than a friend. Yes, he knew that just because you wished something, it didn’t mean it would come true. But for Sherlock, the truth itself came in the wishing. And if John wished that his wife would return, then the truth was that John never felt anything but strong friendship for Sherlock. A truth that was bittersweet for the detective because in wanting John’s happiness at all costs, he knew his own happiness was sacrificed.

He shook his head in an attempt to regain his composure and not reveal the fact that he had been standing outside the bedroom door listening in. He heard the little bed creak slightly as John had apparently shifted his position.

_He’s feeling uncomfortable._

Then, the sound of John clearing his throat echoed throughout the room and filtered into the hallway.

“What’s your third wish?” asked Rosie innocently.

Once again, silence shrouded the flat, almost choking Sherlock as he gently pressed his temple against the wall where his shoulder already leaned. He closed his eyes, all of his concentration focused on the answer that his best friend was about to give. 

“That’s a really tough question,” John’s voice pierced the fog. “I have so many things that I’d like to wish for that it’s hard to just pick one.”

“But you only have one more wish left,” Rosie’s insistent tone followed.

“Yes, I understand,” John replied pensively. “Do you think you could give me time to think about it and I could get back to you on that one?”

“Yes,” Rosie obliged. “You can tell me tomorrow night at bedtime.”

John’s chuckle broke the invisible tension. “Well, that’s awfully big of you your highness.” And suddenly there was giggling and screeching as Sherlock realized that the tickles-hugs-and-kisses part of the evening had commenced.

He quickly gathered himself and made his way down the steps and into the sitting room, which was filled with fairy lights. The detective flopped onto the sofa and assumed a Zen-like pose. This would have the double advantage, he hoped, of deterring John from speaking to him and allowing him some time in his mind palace so he could process through the evening’s events.

Sherlock replayed in his mind every single moment from what had just transpired, taking special notice of everything from Rosie’s laughter to John’s voice inflection. However, what the great … and human … Sherlock Holmes failed to notice was that when he had supposedly stealthily retreated from the upstairs hallway earlier in the evening, well … the seventh step wasn’t the _only_ step in their home that creaked.

* * * *

The next day, things started out normally enough. John had the day off from the clinic so Rosie and he ran some last-minute errands to get ready for Christmas Eve the following day. It was going to be a quiet affair this year. Just Sherlock, John and Rosie, along with Mrs. Hudson for Christmas Eve dinner. 

Sherlock worked on one of his experiments for a time, then flopped into his chair, scrolling through his phone and pondering whether or not he even wanted to continue his nighttime surveillance that evening, when John was “scheduled” to reveal wish number three.

The Watsons finally arrived home and Rosie went downstairs to have lunch with Mrs. Hudson, while John unpacked some groceries and made his way to his own chair with a cup of tea.

Sherlock could tell that John was tense, but the detective remained silent, waiting for a clue as to where the moment was going.

“So, Rosie asked me an interesting question last night before she went to bed,” John finally spoke, staring into his mug.

_Here it is._

“Hmm?” Sherlock answered, trying to act distracted, while his heart thudded in his chest and his shaking fingers were barely able to scroll through his phone.

“She asked me what I would wish for if a genie gave me three wishes,” John chuckled nervously.

Sherlock finally looked up and saw John’s facial expression—a mixture of emotions that Sherlock couldn’t identify.

“Of course the first two were easy,” John continued, fidgeting with his mug. “But the third…”

Sherlock stared at his friend. He felt like he was watching things in slow motion and it was impossible to look away.

“I wanted to be honest with her. … Honest with myself, really. … So I asked her if I could have some time to think about it,” John rambled. “And the thing is—“

Suddenly, Sherlock’s phone beeped, startling both men out of the present conversation. The detective glanced at it and let out a shaky breath before announcing, “It’s Lestrade. We’ve got a solid seven.” Then, he was grabbing his coat, flying down the stairs and out the door, and hailing a cab, having successfully avoided the rest of John’s conversation … for now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for Ch. 2: Dangerous stake-out situation -- Sherlock and John on the ledge of a building; life-threatening weapon use involved

By evening, Sherlock and John had been on the hunt for a smuggler, named Winston, and his gang for eight hours, which placed the duo in a rather odd situation.

“Sherlock,” John whispered harshly to his flatmate.

“Hmm?” the detective distractedly answered.

“Is this actually a good time to be texting?” the doctor stage whispered angrily.

Sherlock looked up from his mobile, gave John a quick smile, then answered in a hushed tone, “Actually, John, I think you’ll soon find that this is an excellent time to be texting,” before pocketing his mobile and leaning ever so slightly peering into the window between them.

John stared at the detective with an air of incredulousness, his eyes shooting invisible darts at the younger man. And in that moment, Sherlock could see why perhaps John wasn’t completely on board with the current plan. It was one thing for the two of them to be outside the smuggler’s flat, flanking both sides of a window, waiting for the right time to make the next move. It was another to be outside the smuggler’s flat, flanking both sides of a window, while skirting a snow-covered ledge that was three stories up with London traffic rushing below them. 

“John,” Sherlock began, noticing John’s back and palms plastered flush against the side of the brick building, arms out to his sides in an attempt to stay balanced upon his perch. “I know it may appear to you that I’ve gotten us into a bit of a conundrum. …”

“Yeah, good deduction!” John barely kept his voice at a hushed level.

“But let me assure you that the last eight hours of chasing this particular individual will not have been in vain,” Sherlock calmly explained. “Now, I need you to follow my directions. And—“

“That’s all I’ve been doing all day is following your directions, Sherlock!” John bit out. “Run, John. Jump, John. Don’t run over that old lady, John. Follow me through this window, John. You’re mad!”

“You’d have never forgiven yourself if you plowed over that woman,” Sherlock interjected. “I was merely—“

“Shut up,” John growled.

Sherlock promptly sealed his lips and watched as the doctor closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose. A technique he used as a mental time out when he need to keep himself under control.

After a few minutes had passed, Sherlock noticed that the older man had seemed to calm down considerably.

“John?” he asked warily.

John slowly opened his eyes and turned to look directly at the detective. Sherlock was momentarily taken aback as he focused on his blogger’s dark, shimmering eyes, reflecting the lights of the city within them. They were clear and sharp. His jaw was clenched ever so slightly and his chin was raised in duty. Sherlock forgot to breathe as he watched Captain Watson emerge. _Beautiful._

“What do we need to do?” John asked calmly.

Sherlock gasped slightly, remembering that he was, in fact, in the middle of catching a criminal and not just admiring his transformative friend.

The detective cleared his throat and explained, “As far as I can tell, there are three people in the flat, including Winston. Only one of the men has a gun. On three, I will break through this very thin glass window, surprising the trio, and attempt to subdue Winston. You’ll follow me in, with your gun drawn, firing once at the east wall. The man without a gun will flee and you’ll point your firearm at the gunman’s head, who by then will be aiming his weapon at his boss and me, battling on the floor.”

John looked intensely at Sherlock. “Then what?”

Sherlock glanced to the street below noticing an unmarked police vehicle swerving around the corner of the building, then spoke. “I don’t have time to explain the rest. I need you to trust me right now. Can you do that, John? … Trust me?”

John looked as if he was going to spout something in anger, but pursed his lips and nodded. 

Sherlock let out a breath and nodded back. “One. … Two. … Three.”

It all happened quickly as Sherlock’s body crashed through the window and he launched himself at the smuggler, while criminal number two ran, just as the detective predicted. John followed Sherlock’s directions to the letter. And just as the cool metal of John’s gun touched the sweaty, smooth temple of the gunman, Lestrade, Donovan and two other officers swarmed in and just like that, the situation was under control. The criminals captured. The smuggling ring broken up. The whereabouts of the stolen goods revealed. And John and Sherlock were sitting in a taxi, coming down from their adrenaline high.

“That’s who you were texting, then. When we were up on that damn ledge. Lestrade?” John asked as his head lolled against the seat.

“Yep,” Sherlock smugly answered as he watched the city drift by outside the cab window.

“Alright,” John smiled. “Impress me.”

Sherlock turned toward the older man, noticing the fond expression on John’s face and knowing that his own mirrored it.

“I texted Lestrade and explained the situation. I told him to enter from the back of the building and to listen for one gun shot. At that point, he was to break the door down and subdue the threesome.”

“But, how did you know what flat number to tell him?” John asked.

“It was obvious,” Sherlock began. “When we entered the building, the first floor addresses were alphabetical 1A through 1E on the north side and 1F through 1J on the south. When we were on the ledge, I simply calculated how many windows were in each flat, the floor we ended up on, the number of flats over we were from where we entered and that gave me the proper address.”

John gaped at the detective a moment then whispered the one word that fed Sherlock’s hunger. “Brilliant.” 

The detective soaked in the praise letting John’s praise wash over him like a cool rain shower.

“Even after all of these years, your mind continues to amaze me,” John added. 

Sherlock gazed at the man sitting next to him. Grey eyes soaking in the deep pools of blue that were staring intently at him. It was times like these that Sherlock thought that perhaps John loved their life together as much as Sherlock did. 

Then John sobered. “But wait, you told Lestrade that he was to break the door down and subdue the criminals? But you knew the one guy would flee and we were already inside and had things well in hand. In fact, we didn’t have to bust through that window at all. Lestrade could have taken care of the whole thing,” he explained with a hint of exasperation.

At this, Sherlock smirked, “Well, you and I had done most of the work over the past eight hours, John. I wasn’t going to let NSY swoop in and completely save the day.”

John shook his head and laughed. A sound that Sherlock lived for.

“Besides,” Sherlock continued as he turned to face the window. “My best friend is an adrenaline junkie. I know when he needs a fix.”

John smirked, then his expression turned somber. “Best friends. … Yeah. … That’s what we are. … Friends.” John then turned to face the outside world.

Sherlock spared a glance at his blogger in an effort to deduce his friend’s feelings at that moment. But it was of no use. John had closed the emotional door and not even Sherlock’s brilliant mental crowbar could pry it open. The detective slowly turned to face the window again feeling disconcerted. An odd silence permeated the cab until it finally arrived at Baker Street.

 

* * * *

 

As the pair trudged tiredly up the stairs and made their way into the sitting room, they were greeted by Mrs. Hudson and Rosie, who was just getting ready to start her bedtime routine.

“Daddy! Sherlock!” Rosie squealed, as she ran to John with arms up, ready to be scooped up and hugged.

“Hello, sweetheart,” John said as he hugged and kissed her. “Were you good for Mrs. Hudson?”

“She absolutely was,” Mrs. Hudson answered for the five-year-old. “She’s always a delight.”

“I’m always a delight,” Rosie parroted proudly.

John gave a hearty laugh, “Say goodnight to everyone.”

Still settled in John’s arms, Rosie leaned over and threw her own arms around Mrs. Hudson, who gave her a peck on the cheek. “Goodnight, Rosie, dear,” the older woman gushed, then made her way downstairs after repeated thanks from John and a reminder that Christmas Eve dinner would be served at five o’clock the following afternoon.

Then Rosie leaned the other way, grasping a hold of Sherlock’s Belstaff and pushing her nose into his chest. Sherlock planted a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Good night, Watson,” his deep, yet soft, voice rumbled. 

As Sherlock pulled away gently, he noticed John watching the scene with a facial expression that could only be described as soft and … loving? In the detective’s tired state, he could almost believe that John meant it for him as well as Rosie.

“Well, um, … we’re going to head upstairs,” John stated as Rosie laid her head on his shoulder.

“Yes, well … have a good night,” Sherlock answered.

“Yes, it’ll be nice to get to bed,” John curiously stated. “You know, really tired from the case and all that.”

Sherlock nodded, not quite sure why John was babbling about bedtime. He seemed to be quite nervous.

“Well, we’ll see you in the morning then,” John spoke, finally looking away. He and Rosie stopped by the kitchen to grab a glass of water before retreating up the stairs. Sherlock then heard the upstairs bedroom door close and the lock click, which was odd.

The detective mulled over the previous few minutes as he made his way to his own room, changing into his pajamas and laying down briefly to wait. He was determined that he would, in fact, conduct his continued bedtime surveillance and listen to John’s third wish. Because for as much as Sherlock dreaded hearing John proclaim the inevitable, the detective knew he dreaded the “not knowing” even more. And even with the bedroom door closed this time, Sherlock still had methods of listening in.

However, the next thing he knew, Sherlock awoke with a start to a completely darkened room except for the clock on the bedside table that revealed that he’d been asleep for six hours. He leaned over and switched on the bedside lamp and noticed that someone had covered him with a blanket. _John._

_John Watson, you keep me right. You’re always there with a fond smile. … Or, a cup of tea. …. Or, even a blanket. … You’re always doing me a kindness. You make sure I eat … and sleep. But the biggest kindness you give is the trust you show in me. You trust me with your life and your daughter’s life. Just like tonight … you didn’t have to trust me. You could have walked away. But you didn’t. … True, you love the chase as much as I do, but when I asked you to trust me, you did. … I only wish … I only wish you would trust me with your heart, John._

Suddenly, Sherlock remembered that John was to have revealed his third wish. John had promised Rosie, and if Sherlock knew her, like he thought he did, the five-year-old was not one to forget things she deemed important. And he’d bet his family’s estate that Rosie wasn’t going to let that third wish go. Sherlock was up and pacing the floor immediately.

_Damn it! I missed the third wish! My weak transport giving into something as boring as sleep, and now I’ve missed it. … Although, … perhaps, … it’s for the best. … John and I have come so far in building a life together. A good life … I think. … Why would I want to ruin it with something as simple as the truth._

Sherlock slowly crawled back into bed, laying on his back, staring at the ceiling as his mind whirred.

_I just have to accept that I’ll never know John’s wish. … I can’t ask him about it because then he’ll know I was spying. And even I know that that’s probably a bit not good. … But, I hate not knowing.… However, … it may be for the best. I don’t know how I’d react … how I’d feel … if I knew our life together was just a substitute for a life he can’t have._

He lay there for another couple of hours, tossing, turning and thinking of the fragile balance in which he found his life and happiness. He felt so alone.

And yet, he wasn’t the only adult in 221B who was wide awake in the early, grey hours of dawn.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The small Christmas Eve gathering was everything it should be. A table full of delicious food, thanks to Mrs. Hudson and John; beautiful violin music courtesy of Sherlock; Christmas crackers; a few small gifts exchanged and some Christmas sweets and treats. By nine o’clock, Mrs. Hudson was saying good night and shuffling downstairs, while John and Rosie were conducting their bedtime routine, complete with John’s energetic and traditional telling of _’Twas the Night Before Christmas_. Sherlock heard John making his way downstairs, no doubt, to finish cleaning up the kitchen. He smiled to himself when he thought of what John’s reaction would be when he discovered what Sherlock was up to.

“Well,” John laughed, entering the kitchen. “This really is the time of year for miracles.”

Sherlock, who was elbow-deep in water and suds, just rolled his eyes. “I am capable of manual labor, John. In fact, sometimes when I’ve come up against a puzzle that I can’t solve, I’ll do something that requires more manual-type skills. One time I dusted the entire flat.”

John stood with his mouth open; his brow furrowed in disbelief.

“It was years ago. You were at some boring medical conference,” Sherlock explained as he wiped his hands on a towel and placed it over the air-drying dishes. “Lestrade called with a murder case that was actually interesting, but after 24 hours I was still stumped and you weren’t here to help.”

“What, and the skull couldn’t assist?” John mused.

“This was beyond even the skull’s capabilities,” Sherlock quipped. “After an additional 12 hours, I was going mad, so I started dusting and sure enough, it did the trick and I finally solved the case.”

“Incredible,” John replied as he pulled two glasses down from the shelf, along with a bottle of Scotch.

“Yes, ironically, the housekeeper ended up having committed the crime,” Sherlock finished nonplussed, walking toward the sitting room, hearing John’s giggle following him.

The two of them made their way to where their chairs were banked by the fireplace. The only lights in the room shone from the fairy lights that were strung from the windows and mantel, the lights on the Christmas tree and the glowing flames from the logs in the fireplace. John handed Sherlock a glass and the pair took their places in their chairs, as they were known to do many evenings.

Sherlock looked across at his blogger and best friend, bathed in soft light, and was overwhelmed by emotion. John’s eyes sparkled and he lifted his glass.

“To the very best of times,” John spoke quietly.

Sherlock lifted his glass and sipped as John smiled. Then, because Sherlock was, well, Sherlock, he quietly questioned, “Is it?”

John’s contented expression suddenly turned decidedly less so and he answered, “What do you mean?”

“Do you really think this is the best of times?” Sherlock continued, feeling a bit mentally displaced.

John looked as if he was steeling himself. He set his drink on the side table and looked straight into Sherlock’s eyes. “Sherlock, there’s been something I’ve wanted to tell you. I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while now, but I’m a coward.”

“Nonsense, John. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met,” Sherlock countered.

John shook his head. “Not when it comes to this.” He swallowed and continued.

“I started to tell you the other day and we were interrupted by a case. Rosie asked me what I would wish for if a genie gave me three wishes. Of course I told her that my first wish was for her to have a happy life and my second wish was for Harry to get help. And, finally for my third wish I—”

Sherlock suddenly had a moment of sheer panic. He decided he didn’t want to know the truth. After all, they say, ignorance is bliss. 

“John, wait,” he interrupted, standing abruptly and walking toward the window. “I know what you’re going to say.”

John, stunned, stood up slowly. “I really don’t think you do.”

Sherlock steadied himself. “John, I know you want to tell me about your recent soul searching.” 

“Wait, how do you know— You know what, nevermind. Of course, you know,” John murmured. 

“You really don’t have to share your wish. In fact I’d prefer you don’t,” Sherlock made one last-ditch effort to avoid the crushing blow he knew was coming.

“Oh, I get it. You don’t want to hear it because you want to spare my feelings,” John stated with the beginning of what sounded like annoyance.

“No,” Sherlock answered. “In this case, I’m most decidedly sparing my own.”

“Sherlock, I don’t have a clue what you’re on about,” John’s anger increasingly apparent.

“Well, that’s not surprising,” Sherlock snapped.

“Listen,” John spoke, barely keeping his temper under control as he stepped toward Sherlock. “I’m trying to tell you something very important to me … to _us_.”

“ _Us_ , John?” Sherlock stepped into John’s personal space, their faces barely a few centimeters apart. “Is this whole thing really about _us_?”

“Yes!” John growled.

Then suddenly both men were lunging at each other. John’s hands grabbing Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s arms engulfing John. Their lips locking in a passionate kiss that seemed to last forever. Sherlock heard moaning, but couldn’t tell if it was he or John making such wanting sounds.

“I love you so much, Sherlock,” John panted as he continued kissing the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, his cheeks and chin. “So very much.”

Sherlock’s capacity for mental acuity at the moment was nil. He was holding on to John for dear life, feeling as if he was floating in some parallel ethereal universe. 

And in the frenzy neither one noticed a soft shuffling sound that emanated from the hallway.

“Oh, Daddy,” Rosie groggily beamed as she stood in the sitting room doorway, rubbing her eye with her left hand and grasping Paddington with her right. “Your wish came true.”

John and Sherlock gasped, however, for two totally different reasons. John startled by his daughter. Sherlock startled by the truth.

John, who was still clutching Sherlock’s face, quickly looked from his daughter back to the detective, who was staring wide-eyed at his blogger.

“Your … your wish. It was this … me … us?” Sherlock whispered.

John searched Sherlock’s eyes and what he found there made his heart break. It was a mixture of shock and disbelief, as if Sherlock couldn’t understand why John would even consider him to be worth a wish.

“Yes, Rosie,” John answered his daughter, but continued looking at his best friend with a warm and loving expression. “My wish did come true.” 

John smiled confidently and Sherlock let out a soft breath before bringing his lips together slowly and giving John a shy smile in return. John brought his hands down and squeezed Sherlock’s biceps, then let go in favor of hustling his daughter back to bed.

“Listen, my darling, you need to go to sleep. Santa hasn’t even arrived yet,” John gently stated as he lifted Rosie into his arms and made his way up the steps. Sherlock could hear the young girl tiredly negotiating. 

The detective walked slowly toward the fireplace, staring at the embers and uncharacteristically stumbling through his Mind Palace.

_John’s wish … it—it was about …about me! Me! … And, Us! … How can that possibly be? I thought for sure … I thought … But then he did … and, and then she said … so it must be true! John wants me. Oh, God … I can’t breathe. Wait, yes I can. Deep breath. One. … Two. … Three. Blow it out. Good, that’s good._

“Sherlock? … Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to face his friend, who had apparently flown down the stairs according to the slight windedness of his voice.

“Oh, good. I was afraid I broke you there for a second,” John chuckled, tinged with a bit of nervousness, which actually gave Sherlock the courage he wasn’t even sure he possessed.

“John,” he began. “Your wish. I … I …“

“Yes, Sherlock,” John nodded and replied with a soft smile. “You.”

Sherlock looked at John in wonder as his friend slowly approached him and tenderly placed his left hand on the detective’s cheek, cupping it as if it were the finest piece of treasured crystal.

“It’s alway been you,” John continued.

Sherlock found his limbs moving under their own volition as he shifted forward, placing his hands tentatively on John’s hips. As John’s left hand remained holding Sherlock’s face, the doctor’s right hand stroked its way up Sherlock’s torso and stopped as it covered the spot that housed Sherlock’s rapidly beating heart. 

“For my third wish, I wished that … I wished that I could somehow convey to you just how much I love you and perhaps … know your love in return,” John explained, nearly choking on the last few words.

Sherlock could hardly believe his eyes, his ears and basically his whole existence at that moment. _John Watson loved him!_

He closed his eyes and slowly bowed his head so that his forehead gently touched John’s. He could feel his best friend’s warm, staggered breath wafting over his own trembling lips and in that moment Sherlock couldn’t formulate words, but only breathe in the essence of John. The two of them continued to hold each other, synchronizing their breaths as they had synchronized their lives.

Finally, after a few minutes, Sherlock spoke, “John, I—I can hardly believe your words, but I know they must be true. And although I don’t understand why you would wish such a thing, I want to tell you how grateful I am to be able to make your wish come true. … Completely true.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John gasped, before surging upward and kissing Sherlock with such passion and love that both men found themselves clutching the other, desperately wanting to be as close as possible. Sherlock felt dizziness overtake him and must have unconsciously wavered a bit because Dr. Watson suddenly emerged and guided him to sit down on the sofa.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John asked with concern.

“No, I’m not alright,” the detective answered. “You’ve stopped kissing me, which is quite unacceptable.” Then he moved closer to John, trying to capture the older man’s lips again with his own.

But John persisted placing a hand on Sherlock’s pectoral muscles and holding him gently at bay, “You seemed a bit lightheaded there. Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”

Sherlock then performed the trifecta, starting with a huff, followed by an eye roll and finishing with a determined, “John, don’t be an idiot.” He grabbed the doctor by his shirt and proceeded to kiss him hard. When he finally broke away, Sherlock stared at a very breathless and disheveled John Watson, whose eyes were a bit unfocused.

“John, are _you_ alright?” Sherlock smirked. “You seem a bit dazed. Do you need something to drink?”

John shook his head and laughed then pulled Sherlock toward him and placed a soft, chaste kiss on his lips, before pulling away. His facial expression was one of unabashed fondness. The two of them leaned back on the sofa, letting their heads rest on the back, while their eyes roamed all over each other’s faces. 

Finally, Sherlock took his hand and stroked the side of John’s face, simply because he wanted to know what it felt like. And the detective found that he quite liked the skin-on-skin contact of his finger tips on John’s rough, but beautiful face. Then Sherlock’s mind wandered, thinking about what other kind of skin-on-skin contact to which John might be amenable.

John’s eyes had shut as Sherlock’s hand continued its exploration of the doctor’s face and neck, gently stroking his brow, cheekbones and chin. John seemed like he was in another world, yet managed to speak.

“Sherlock, you were so surprised by my actual wish. What had you thought I would wish for?”

The younger man abruptly stopped moving his hand, which John immediately noticed, opening his eyes and looking at the detective, whose facial expression had turned to worry.

“Hey, it’s okay,” John comforted, sitting up. “Tell me,” he practically whispered.

Sherlock looked at his friend and knew that his confession needed to happen. He couldn’t hope to keep John’s love if he couldn’t be honest. He slowly sat upright.

“I need to tell you the truth, John.” Sherlock swallowed and looked down at his hands, which had ended up clutched in his lap. “I’ve been spying and listening to you and Rosie for about a month. Please don’t be angry with me. Listening to the two of you go through your bedtime routines brings peace to my mind.” Sherlock spared a glance at his friend. “And you know how my mind is.”

John looked at the detective with an expression of understanding, and gave his friend a brief nod, motivating Sherlock to continue. 

“I heard Rosie’s wishes that night. I heard your first two wishes. Well, actually I deduced them before you even said them.”

“I know,” John said, to Sherlock’s surprise. “There is one step up there that creaks slightly,” Johnadmitted. “I knew you had heard us.”

“It’s always something,” Sherlock murmured, but recovered quickly and continued. “But I never heard the third wish. I was planning on continuing my spy game last night, but …“

“I figured as much,” John said. “I knew Rosie would insist on hearing what my third wish was and I didn’t want you to find out like that, crouched in a hallway. I wanted to tell you on my own terms. I tried to throw up some roadblocks. Even went so far as locking the door.”

At that point, Sherlock side-eyed the doctor.

“I know, I know,” John laughed. “As if a locked door could stop you.”

Sherlock smiled, then his expression turned somber and he looked at his lap. “I made a deduction about your third wish that turned out to be, well, not entirely accurate.”

Sherlock was practically rubbing the skin off his hands at this point due to nerves, but he knew he must soldier through. “I thought your third wish would be to have Mary back. … I thought you would want your old life back. You and Mary and Rosie. Together. Like a real family.” Sherlock finished almost in a frightened whisper looking back down at his lap.

John blinked a few times and stared somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s collarbone. When he did speak, he weighed his words carefully.

“And now, I need to tell _you_ the truth,” he began. “The thought crossed my mind. … I thought about what it would be like to have Mary back. I did love Mary. She and I shared a special connection through Rosie. I also had about fifty other thoughts running through my head. But in the end, the only thought that remained … was of you.” 

At this, Sherlock looked up and John shifted forward, grasping the detective’s hands. “You and I have experienced several lives within a single lifetime, I think. We’ve hurt each other, forgiven each other, and loved each other, I suspect, from the beginning. When I thought about my third wish, it was so natural to think of you—how much I love you. And how much I want to make sure you know it. You deserve so much love Sherlock because you give so much love. … I can’t possibly convey to you in a lifetime the depth of my love and gratitude for you.”

Sherlock, who was experiencing an internal explosion of emotion, lunged into John’s arms, wrapping his blogger in a tight embrace, burying his face into the crook of John’s neck and whispering John’s name, over and over. He could feel his body betraying him, shaking in his doctor’s arms. But his friend held him steadily through it and eventually an unworldly calm took over them both. The two men stayed in one another’s embrace wiping away the other’s tears and sharing kisses and loving sentiments until the logs from the fireplace slowly turned to ash. 

Finally, it was getting late, or rather early, and John realized that they’d better make sure “Santa had arrived.” So they carefully and quietly hauled out present after present and placed them around the tree, taking a bit longer than usual because of the intermittent “snog breaks” that they allowed themselves to indulge in. They also discussed Rosie’s wish for a dog and how Sherlock thought it would be a grand idea. Stockings were filled and, of course, Sherlock did the honor of eating the mince pies that had been left for Santa, making sure to leave some crumbs as “evidence” for Rosie to discover. They stood back to admire their handiwork. 

Then, with a gleam in his eye, Sherlock held out his hand, smiling at John with a new-found confidence. John firmly placed his hand in Sherlock’s, each of them giving a knowing look to the other. And the detective began to lead, or more aptly drag, the doctor down the hallway near the kitchen.

“By the way,” Sherlock nonchalantly spoke, “I thought of one more present we can give Rosie this Christmas.”

“What’s that?” John asked.

Sherlock stopped and spun around. And with a sly quirk of his brow and a smirk, he answered, “Her own room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And to all a good night!" hee hee ;)


End file.
